


A Wave Of Heartache

by afteriwake



Series: nongentorum [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Gen, Heartache, Introspection, Light Angst, Molly Feels, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Party, Past Molly Hooper/Tom - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Poor Molly, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sad Ending, Sad Molly, Season/Series 03, crying Molly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 22:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7380898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly is at a party when she encounters Tom, having moved on from their relationship, and she experiences a flood of emotion that she's held back from feeling in the wake of the end of their engagement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wave Of Heartache

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenSkyOverMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenSkyOverMe/gifts).



> So yesterday **GreenSkyOverMe** gave me a link to a post that had a lot of untranslatable words and asked me if I could write fic for them in any of the fandoms that she's commissioned fic for, and then she mentioned she'd like Molly-centric Sherlock fic, and I saw the word used for this fic and thought of Molly running into her ex-fiancee and this bubbled forth. I used a slightly different convention in that the parts in parenthesis in italics are all thoughts in Molly's head, so I do hope you all enjoy that.

  
**litost**  
Czech  
_the hurtful feeling experienced when you unexpedtedly see the person responsible for your heartbreak_   


“I could do that, but _could_ doesn’t mean would.”

Laughter filled the room and she knew that laugh. Her body froze for a moment when she heard that laugh cut through the air, almost like a deer frozen in headlights. He was here. It should have been expected that they would run into each other at some point; they had been introduced through mutual acquaintances, after all, and even though their relationship was over and their engagement was over and on the surface it had ended in a friendly manner and their friends ( _thankfully for them, of course,_ ) had not had to choose sides, there was always the chance that there would be events where they would run into each other again. She should have been prepared for that. She should have known she would see Tom again, at one point or another.

Soon she turned and saw he was standing and having a conversation with some people she didn’t know, a ( _much more attractive than she had any hope of ever being_ ) blonde woman standing next to him with her hand on his arm in a manner that said “He’s mine.” So he’d moved on. Good for him. No, really, good for him. He deserved it, no matter the words he’d said during their final fight that had wounded her to the core. He deserved to be happy while she was alone and miserable. That was what was right, right? What was fair?

She reached to rub where the engagement ring had been before she remembered he had demanded it back. It had been a family heirloom, he’d said. Didn’t matter it had been a gift given freely, he wanted it back. She’d wanted ( _oh so badly, more than she’d ever really wanted anything in the world_ ) to pull it off her finger and hurl it at his face, hit him square in between the eyes, but she’d simply slid it off her finger and dropped it in his outstretched palm and asked him to kindly leave. And that had been that, really; he’d taken his coat and left. He’d come back to get the few belongings he’d left at her flat while she was at work, left a box of her things and his key on her kitchen worktop and that was the end of things.

She should have felt sadder at the time but to be honest she’d felt nothing but relief, really, after the wedding, after limping along another month when they both knew how she truly felt. You can’t stab your fiancee’s hand with a fork ( _even if it’s with a plastic fork, as she pointed out umpteen million times_ ) when he’s making a fool out of himself in front of a man you fancied for years and not have that mean something. And they both knew what it meant; neither of them were idiots, despite what certain consulting detectives thought of certain paramours of certain pathologists. But the damage had been done and you could only limp along before the inevitable just was too glaring to ignore. One final row and then it was all over. Relief was the predominate emotion she’d felt.

But now? Oh, now she felt heartache. Perhaps if she’d tried harder, distanced herself from Sherlock more. Guarded her heart a little better, placed it in an iron box under chains and lock and key. Allowed only Tom near it. Oh, who was she kidding? Sherlock only had to give her a look and she was done for ( _pathetic, she was so pathetic, utterly and stupidly pathetic, really_ ) and she should have just admitted it outright to Tom instead of stringing him along. She should have admitted it to Sherlock the day they solved the case together, that she fancied him, always had, always would. It would have saved her heartache and heartbreak.

She tore her eyes away from the happy couple, the smiles on their faces and the cheer surrounding them as tears pricked the back of her eyes ( _don’t cry, woman, don’t cry in public, make it to the loo or outside if you can, are you wearing waterproof mascara at least?_ ) and she finally uprooted herself from the spot and began weaving her way through the crowd, trying to find privacy, trying to find a place to break down and sob the tears she’d kept close for months now, the tears she should have shed when it all went belly up. It felt like there had to be nine hundred people at this party but finally she was outside in the gardens, looking for a private place to sit and finding a bench shrouded in darkness.

She sat down and bowed her head, crying in deep, silent sobs. Why was she crying over him? She cared about Tom, but had she really loved him? Maybe. Possibly. Probably not, though. No, it was more she was crying over what she _could_ have had, what she’d wanted ( _the husband, the children, the home with the yard and the life that was so like her mum and dad’s, but most of all the happiness_ ) and what, frankly, she was afraid she’d never get. What a damn shame that was, that he might still get it while she probably never would.

What a damn, damn shame.


End file.
